What Dreams May Come
by D.B.R Hazlewoode
Summary: When Shanta has a nightmare, Bruce comforts her the best way that he knows how.


Bruce lowered himself into bed and removed his glasses, rubbing at his tired eyes. As he gazed up at the ceiling, his mind wandered to the work that he and Tony had gotten done that afternoon. It hadn't been much, but after years of negative and inconclusive results, even the smallest thing felt like a personal victory. His mind was just beginning to drift toward sleep when Shanta called out from her bedroom.

"_Baap!" _she cried, using the Hindi equivalent of "daddy" in her terror. Exhaustion forgotten, Bruce stumbled out of bed and ran to his daughter's room, shoving his glasses on crookedly in his haste. The only coherent thought that ran through his mind was, _they've come for her. To get back at me, they've come for her. _Panicked, he threw open the door, appeased only by the sight of his daughter, curled up into a terrified ball in the middle of her bed.

Bruce clicked on the light, searching every inch of her room before he deemed it safe. Kneeling beside Shanta, he spoke in low, hushed tones as he pulled her into his lap.

_"Shanta, be calm. Be still. I'm here,"_ he murmured in Hindi, gently brushing the knots out of her hair with his fingers. She trembled with fear, her silent tears staining his shirt. He whispered words of comfort into her ears as the nightmare he knew she'd had faded away as the twilight does to dawn.

Bruce continued to run his hand through her hair as he rocked her slowly, marveling at himself. There had been a time when he hadn't allowed himself near another adult, much less a child, for fear of losing control. There had been a time when he had thought that everything; happiness, love, family...there had been a time when all of those things had eluded him, had led him to believe that he was incapable of having them. But Shanta had shattered the distrust that he had in himself. He found that there was less time to be spent hating what he was when there was someone more important than himself to worry about.

His hands shook slightly as he comforted his daughter, hands that had killed, hands that had destroyed. To think that those same hands could also be used to care for a child...

_"Baap, I can't go back to sleep, or I'll have the dream again," _Shanta whimpered into his chest, reverting to Hindi. Bruce held her away from him for a moment and brushed the tears from her eyes as gently as he dared, terrified that he would hurt her by mistake.

_"Can you tell me about the dream?" _he asked. Shanta shook her head adamantly and reached out for the teddy bear Tony had given her, one that also acted as a sound monitor. It was always on, but Bruce hardly ever took advantage of it, as their bedrooms were right next to each other. When she cried out in her sleep, he heard it, regardless. Always.

A quick glance at Shanta's bedside clock told Bruce that it was rapidly approaching two a.m. He badly wanted for her to go back to sleep, but he knew that the effort would be fruitless. Instead, he rose with her in his arms and carried her to the kitchen. With his daughter in one arm, he rummaged around in the refrigerator and cabinets with the other. He dug out a pot and boiled milk while he washed a small bowl of rice. As he worked, Bruce found himself humming a few bars of classical music, and he danced his daughter around the kitchen, earning a giggle or two.

By the time he removed the pot from the stove, Shanta was calm, all traces of the nightmare gone. She leaned over his shoulder as he turned and stuck a finger into the pot.

_"Payesh?" _she inquired, allowing her father to pull her long hair back so it wouldn't fall into the pot. Bruce kissed her cheek and reached for two bowls.

_"I know how you love it. But just a little, Shanta, I don't want you to get a stomachache." _Using a ladle, he spooned the hot payesh into the bowls and left the remainder to cool on the counter. Shanta grabbed her bowl, and Bruce took his, and he carried her into their living room, clicking on the television even though it was a direct violation of his own rules. He never let Shanta eat in front of the television, especially not at odd hours. But this was an exception, he conceded, and it wouldn't happen again.

As he watched his daughter in the dim lighting that the television provided, Bruce smiled. He worried about her, despite the others' reassurances that she was doing fine. He wanted to be a good father, but he hadn't exactly had the greatest example growing up. He had no idea what he was supposed to _do_, so he simply resorted to doing what he thought was best. There had been a month long period of trial and error, but Pepper had graciously provided her assistance until Bruce was on somewhat stable ground. Shanta seemed to teach him something new everyday, and for that, Bruce would always be grateful. She was something to look forward to; something to live for.

Abandoning her empty bowl on the table, she climbed onto Bruce's lap, resting her cheek against the side of his neck, warm, tired breaths warming his skin.

"_I love you, baap,"_ she yawned, relaxing. She would sleep soon, Bruce knew. Smiling, he tucked her hair behind her ear and covered the both of them with a blanket.

"_I love you too, Shanta. Always."_


End file.
